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Louisiana Gargoyles
She would stretch her legs out
on long
breathless nights
across the Wicker Savannah Sofa
waiting
for the wicked summer
heat
to roll away into the sea
Outstretched on the veranda
quietly purring
like a happy Persian cat
always breathless – to see the stars
as hot swaths of finger fog
rolled across
the hot Louisiana countryside
Across the wavering Louisiana heat
you could see
the distant flickering lights
out
across the gulf
way down below
where the countryside touched the sea
And as the dark night air
billowed
through the bedroom window
I woke
from my groggy catatonic gin nap
as always
several hours, after making love
All the lights were out but
for a few candles
and the sweet glowing cinder of a Nag Champa stick
where she sat waiting
on the veranda
with her legs outstretched
bathing in the moonlight, with her sweet Savannah smile
Sweet Nag Champa smoke, floating off
from the terracotta table
into the sweet Louisiana air
next to eight
neatly rolled, brown paper cigarettes
and her wooden rosary beads
and several prayers, long ascended
But while she rolled those eight cigarettes
and made prayers waiting
for me to wake,
She kept an eye on the old Spanish graveyard
across the street,
with its old iron-wrought gate
guarded by two massive gargoyles
In the midnight moonlight
those gargoyles
had a mysterious almost-living quality
Sometimes she would swear they came alive
in late hours of the night,
when warm finger-fog rolled across the countryside
from the far east bank of the Mississippi
like an ancient druid plume
of spells,
born along by magic
And these ancient marble gargoyles
must have stood upon
their ancient
marble perch for centuries
under many a thousand moonlit nights
even long before
the great siege of Vicksburg
Even long before – the Civil War began
And long before anyone – was ever watching
But now you’re watching – Sophie
And they’re watching – You
And you and they – are watching each other all the time
In this strange game – of cat and mouse
As she was sure – they sometimes, appeared to move
But you could never be entirely sure
about it
And you could never stake too much
against it
You could only wait – each night
in the stifling heat
Sitting out – on the veranda, waiting for a twitch
~/~
In the steamy, slow-moving
In the steamy, slow-moving air of the deep South, you brought a chill . . .
Everything is perfectly conspired to place us right there in the homespun, smoky, moonlit world that appears as if by magic under the spell of your talent, and I swore I sensed the unnatural stirrings of statues that are synonymous with fear.
Subtlety, evocative details, a brisk pace and a psychological slow drip of anticipation are the materials you used to craft a marvel.
Hooked and amazed.
Last night, I saw, in its
Last night, I saw, in its complete version, the Thai film, Shutter, which some reviewers (with whom I happen to agree) consider to be the most perfect ghost story ever put upon film. Today, I have just read this magnificent poem---which, to my mind, is the finest expression of eerieness in poetry that I have ever encountered, and I have been reading poetry since the spring of 1973. A ghost story need not have actual ghosts to be ghostly; your gargoyles serve quite well in that capacity. The poem also has the musical quality of a theme and variations, or of the thematic development of the sonata form. Every element in this poem works at full capacity to contribute to the total effect---not one word is out of place, not one word is superfluous. To me, this is not only a poem; it is a textbook example of the technique of making a poem haunted. When I search for something to compare it to, and I have done so several times as I try to express my admiration in this comment, I keep coming back to Ambrose Bierce's short horror story, "An Inhabitant Of Carcosa." And in that tale, one finds the same compression (always a sign of classic talent), the perfect deployment of every word, every phrase without waste or digression, the almost compulsory drive to the conclusion once the narrative begins. But, I believe that your poem---being written in verse rather than prose, and being far more compact---is GREATER and far more successful than even Bierce's story. Today, postpoems has witnessed the posting of a veritable and obvious MASTERPIECE---a poem that is greater than the sum of its highly artistic parts; a poem that provide both a gripping tale and a subliminally terrifying mood; a poem that most poets, on this site and elsewhere, are unable to produce, even in a lifetime of attempting it. During these past twenty months that have seen the gradual failing of my health, I have been blessed to see three examples of GREATNESS on postpoems, three poets whose verbal artistry takes my breath away---and you are the third of the three. I thank you and applaud you for writing and posting this tremendously and eerily beautiful poem. Each of its lines is better than a thousand prose ghost stories, and I am bookmarking it so that I can return to it often. I am sure I have only scratched the surface of its artistry, and that further reading will reveal even greater depths of meaning. Again, THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Starward
You’re in-depth thought
You’re in-depth thought process always blows me away Starward. It’s so dense that I often have to read it through several times, to gather the full gravity. You have an amazing way of thinking and you are a truly generous soul. I do love a good ghost story. I will certainly have a look at that film you mentioned. One of my favourites was a 1981 film called “Ghost Story”
Thank you for the compliment,
Thank you for the compliment, and I think you will enjoy Shutter---which is elegant and mysterious.
I have read this poem through several times; and I continue to be amazed at the tremendous verbal artistry of which it is composed.
Starward